labored over "smelled like Gretchen's snatch."
There were two things wrong with that: First, Gretchen was her twice-divorced, flirtatious younger sister, and second, he had a panic-stricken look on his face that denuded the feeble explanation when he quickly said, "Of course, I wouldn't know what Gretchen's . . ." Then he began again and said, "I was just trying for a Chris Rock kind of line but didn't make it, huh? The meat loaf is fine. It's fine, honey."
She didn't say a word but walked to the back porch, where the roofer kept his tool belt, and returned with the hammer just as he was taking the first bite of meat loaf that smelled like Gretchen's snatch.
Even though the wife had been booked for attempted murder, the guy only ended up with twenty-three stitches and a concussion. Andi figured that whichever deputy DA the case was taken to would reject it as a felony and refer it to the city attorney's office for a misdemeanor filing, which was fine with her. The hammer victim reminded her of her ex-husband, Jason, now retired from LAPD and living in Idaho near lots of other coppers who had fled to the wilderness locales. Places where local cops only write on their arrest reports under race of suspects either "white" or "landscaper."
Jason had been one of those whom several other women officers had sampled, the kind they called "Twinkies," guys who aren't good for you but you have to have one. Andi had been young then, and she paid the price during a five-year marriage that brought her nothing good except Max.
Her only child, Sergeant Max Edward McCrea, was serving with the U. S. Army in Afghanistan, his second deployment, the first having been in Iraq at a time when Andi was hardly ever able to sleep more than a few hours before waking with night sweats. It was better now that he was in Afghanistan. A little better. Eighteen years old, just out of high school, he had gotten the itch, and there was nothing she could do to keep him from signing that enlistment contract. Nothing that her ex-husband could do either, when for once Jason had stepped up and acted like a father. Max had said he was going into the army with two other teammates from his varsity football team, and that was it. Iraq for him, tension headaches for her, lying awake in her two-story house in Van Nuys.
After getting her case file in order, Andi was about to get a cup of coffee, when one of the Watch 2 patrol officers approached her cubicle and said, "Detective, could you talk to a fourteen-year-old runaway for us? We got a call to the Lucky Strike Lanes, where he was bowling with a forty-year-old guy who started slapping him around. He tells us he was molested by the guy, but the guy won't talk at all. We got him in a holding tank."
"You need the sex crimes detail," Andi said.
"I know, but they're not here and I think the kid wants to talk but only to a woman. Says the things he's got to say are too embarrassing to tell a man. I think he needs a mommy."
"Who doesn't?" Andi sighed. "Okay, put him in the interview room and I'll be right there."
Five minutes later, after drinking her coffee, and after getting the boy a soft drink and advising him for the second time of his rights, she nodded to the uniformed officer that he could leave.
Aaron Billings was delicate, almost pretty, with dark ringlets, wide-set expressive eyes, and a mature, lingering gaze that she wouldn't have expected. He looked of mixed race, maybe a quarter African American, but she couldn't be sure. He had a brilliant smile.
"Do you understand why the officers arrested you and your companion?" she asked.
"Oh, sure," he said. "Mel was hitting me. Everyone saw him. We were right there in the bowling alley. I'm sick of it, so when they asked for our ID I told them I was a runaway. I'm sure my mom's made a report. Well, I think she would."
"Where're you from?"
"Reno, Nevada."
"How long have you been gone?"
"Three weeks."
"Did you run away with Mel?" Andi asked.
"No, but I met
There were two things wrong with that: First, Gretchen was her twice-divorced, flirtatious younger sister, and second, he had a panic-stricken look on his face that denuded the feeble explanation when he quickly said, "Of course, I wouldn't know what Gretchen's . . ." Then he began again and said, "I was just trying for a Chris Rock kind of line but didn't make it, huh? The meat loaf is fine. It's fine, honey."
She didn't say a word but walked to the back porch, where the roofer kept his tool belt, and returned with the hammer just as he was taking the first bite of meat loaf that smelled like Gretchen's snatch.
Even though the wife had been booked for attempted murder, the guy only ended up with twenty-three stitches and a concussion. Andi figured that whichever deputy DA the case was taken to would reject it as a felony and refer it to the city attorney's office for a misdemeanor filing, which was fine with her. The hammer victim reminded her of her ex-husband, Jason, now retired from LAPD and living in Idaho near lots of other coppers who had fled to the wilderness locales. Places where local cops only write on their arrest reports under race of suspects either "white" or "landscaper."
Jason had been one of those whom several other women officers had sampled, the kind they called "Twinkies," guys who aren't good for you but you have to have one. Andi had been young then, and she paid the price during a five-year marriage that brought her nothing good except Max.
Her only child, Sergeant Max Edward McCrea, was serving with the U. S. Army in Afghanistan, his second deployment, the first having been in Iraq at a time when Andi was hardly ever able to sleep more than a few hours before waking with night sweats. It was better now that he was in Afghanistan. A little better. Eighteen years old, just out of high school, he had gotten the itch, and there was nothing she could do to keep him from signing that enlistment contract. Nothing that her ex-husband could do either, when for once Jason had stepped up and acted like a father. Max had said he was going into the army with two other teammates from his varsity football team, and that was it. Iraq for him, tension headaches for her, lying awake in her two-story house in Van Nuys.
After getting her case file in order, Andi was about to get a cup of coffee, when one of the Watch 2 patrol officers approached her cubicle and said, "Detective, could you talk to a fourteen-year-old runaway for us? We got a call to the Lucky Strike Lanes, where he was bowling with a forty-year-old guy who started slapping him around. He tells us he was molested by the guy, but the guy won't talk at all. We got him in a holding tank."
"You need the sex crimes detail," Andi said.
"I know, but they're not here and I think the kid wants to talk but only to a woman. Says the things he's got to say are too embarrassing to tell a man. I think he needs a mommy."
"Who doesn't?" Andi sighed. "Okay, put him in the interview room and I'll be right there."
Five minutes later, after drinking her coffee, and after getting the boy a soft drink and advising him for the second time of his rights, she nodded to the uniformed officer that he could leave.
Aaron Billings was delicate, almost pretty, with dark ringlets, wide-set expressive eyes, and a mature, lingering gaze that she wouldn't have expected. He looked of mixed race, maybe a quarter African American, but she couldn't be sure. He had a brilliant smile.
"Do you understand why the officers arrested you and your companion?" she asked.
"Oh, sure," he said. "Mel was hitting me. Everyone saw him. We were right there in the bowling alley. I'm sick of it, so when they asked for our ID I told them I was a runaway. I'm sure my mom's made a report. Well, I think she would."
"Where're you from?"
"Reno, Nevada."
"How long have you been gone?"
"Three weeks."
"Did you run away with Mel?" Andi asked.
"No, but I met
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